The Wings of Icarus | Page 8

sunlight streamed in at the windows, and lay coloured on the dusty
floor, on bowed head and Sunday bonnet; through one little white
window, just opposite me, I could see a sparrow bobbing up and down
on the ivy. Then away sailed my spirit, through the church wall, over
the meadows, and into the copse; I pushed my way through the
underwood, and picked up a leaf here and there, listening to the gentle
voice of the wood-pigeon. And then--you know there is one thought
into which all thoughts resolve--I walked with you, dearest, on the
hilltops by Fiesole; she, too, was there, and you both laughed at me
because I tried to dig up a wild orchid with a flint, and got my hands so
dirty.
Then we had that long talk about the possibility of an after-life, which

began with the bulb of the orchid--do you remember?
"Nothing is lost in Nature," said my mother. "There is no such thing as
annihilation; death is surely transubstantiation."
"Perhaps then, after all," said I, "the noblest part of us, the self, that
invisible core which we call soul, is just a drop, as it were, in a great
soul-ocean, whose waves wrap creation, and into which we shall fall.
What's the matter, Constantia?"
"I can't listen to you any more, you prosy things; you make me
melancholy. Go and be waves if you like, you two; I'm going to have
white wings and be an angel!"
* * * * *
"I believe in God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth."
These words roused me with a hard and sudden shock. I had completely
forgotten where I was; I looked about me, half dazed, and saw
everyone standing except myself. Must I, too, rise and say the Creed? I
did not hesitate, because I did not think. I simply stood up and left the
church.
After dinner I went to the rectory; I felt that my former hypocrisy and
cowardice must be atoned for without delay. Besides, as Goethe's
mother used to say, there is no need to stare at the devil, it is better to
swallow him whole. Well, I went to Mr. Dobb, and confessed myself.
He was less shocked at my disbelief than I had expected, but my
profession of it troubled him considerably. He spoke a great deal about
example, about the leading of the masses, and altogether seems to hold
avowed lack of faith, a greater sin than feigned belief.
Of course he had plenty to say on the subject; he seems to be an honest
man, and I must admit that much of what I heard impressed me. I
envied him the ease with which he spoke, the ready-coined language he
was free to use. I could find no words in which to prove that I, too, had
a religion. I wonder, shall I ever be able to tell another what it is that I

feel, as by means of a sixth sense, when earth and heaven are fairest,
when poets sing their best and music is most divine, when the souls of
men and women leap to their eyes and their hearts lie bare; then
something within me smiles and shivers, and I say, "This--this is God!"
Oh, it is all very well to talk of being sincere! Again and yet again I
must say it. For the lips cannot speak what the spirit feels. And
then,--why, I spoiled my truthful day by a lie at the end. How could I
go to those two old dears and say, "I cannot pray with you or go to
church any more, I am an infidel." How could I? I said instead, "My
mother brought me up in a different faith; I tried to go to your church,
but I cannot, and I think you would not wish me to act against my
conscience in so sacred a matter, so we will go our ways."
Oh, what a struggling world it is! And how weary one becomes of the
incessant strife when those upon whose hearts one might lean are far
away, unknown, or dead! Oh, I am very lonely. What is life without
love? It is not to be borne. Do you remember what it was to lie in your
cot, to watch the firelight on the ceiling, feeling the darkness without;
and, as you lay snug in your little world within the world, to see your
mother lean over your pillow, a great Heaven-roof of love,--to be lifted,
weak and small and trustful, in her arms, to feel your weary head
pressed close against her breast? O Constance, I would give all--my
very eyesight--to feel an arm about me in the dark, to yield up Self, to
rest. We women are poor wretches; no man